


ENEMIES IN HIGH PLACES

by cellsinterlinked



Category: Original Work
Genre: Assassins & Hitmen, Body Horror, Crimes & Criminals, Film Noir, Guns, Hard Boiled - Freeform, Hard-Boiled Fiction, Horror, Hotels, Inspired by You Were Never Really Here, Original Fiction, Oscurità: A Dark Anthology, Secrets, Sneaking Around, Thriller, hard-boiled
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-03-14
Updated: 2020-03-14
Packaged: 2021-02-28 22:00:46
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,909
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23134324
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/cellsinterlinked/pseuds/cellsinterlinked
Summary: Mike is a hitman who one evening gets a call to eliminate his next target, a sitting Congressman hiding in a seedy hotel downtown. Mike, excited to take on his most high profile target yet, gets to work right away. But this job soon takes a turn that even the most experienced assassins couldn't prepare for...A short and stealthy neo-noir thriller with a touch of cosmic horror.
Kudos: 1





	ENEMIES IN HIGH PLACES

**Author's Note:**

> This was a story I originally wrote for a horror anthology I produced, titled Oscurità: A Dark Anthology, which I self-published on Amazon. I was struggling to come up with an idea I liked, then one day this came to me, and I wrote it in 3 hours. It was heavily inspired by You Were Never Really Here, both the film and the book (both of which are excellent, highly recommend). Anyway, enjoy!

He checked his watch. Two to ten. The payphone would ring any minute, and he would have to pay attention. Daniels wasn't one to repeat himself. Safety measure. Mike stood on the other side of the road, clocking the phone booth. He took another bite out of the liquorice, massacring it between his teeth. It helped him focus. It helped him keep track of time. No relativity here, it wasn't going too fast or too slow. It was going at the speed it should.

A muffled ring came from inside the booth, and he spat the liquorice out, throwing what little he had left, before he jogged to the booth. He didn't need to check both sides before he crossed. This was a quiet road.  
He picked up the receiver. A voice said “Mike.” A stand to attention.  
"Yeah." He was ready and listening.  
"Congressman Rayner. He's a loyal customer of the Phoenix Hotel, that three-star joint on the intersection of Ramsay and Ames. They keep a room there with no bugs just for him. Likes to invite other high-profile guests, likes to talk with them. He's inviting one of them tonight, about midnight. Security at the Phoenix will be low-profile for obvious reasons. Client wants him taken care of tonight. Execution he said, none of this accident or suicide nonsense. Make it bloody if you want, he said, give 'em something to find. I'll call back at one for confirmation." The line died. Mike hung up the phone. He took a second, running his gloved hand over his bald head. He'd taken out a fair few people. This was his first congressman. Clearly, he was moving up. He left the booth.

Nobody suspects a Prius. A mobile observation point for operations like these. He observed the exterior of the Phoenix through his binoculars. Much smaller than he anticipated. Clearly a one-night stop place. Through the windows he could make out warm lights and decent sofas. In the lobby, he spotted just one tough guy, no uniform, just jeans and a jacket, bald like him. Very low-profile, Daniels wasn't kidding. Logically, Mike determined there was certainly one out the back, and two in front of his room. It was only quarter to. He’d have to wait a bit after Rayner had arrived before he could move. Let the guards be relaxed. Who knows how many times they'd done this and not had to take a bullet? By this point, they'd be getting complacent. He knew not to get cocky, especially on a job as big as this, but this was shaping up to be a breeze. In the past he had to deal with top brass in huge companies, many of which carried a paranoid amount of security, the kind that made him break a sweat. Now, his first congressman. And here he was with four private goons. Mike didn't have to think hard why Rayner was in his sights, and why he had to be taken care of tonight. Rayner's tongue was bright silver, and was stirring up the disenfranchised votes. He'd made his way up to congressman at a nauseating speed (especially nauseating for those who opposed him), by this point he was nothing short of a rockstar, especially with the young vote. Tomorrow, he would be announcing his candidacy for the senate. Except, Mike realised, he wouldn't. Because he'd be dead. Because Mike will have killed him. Mike was an absolute professional, but he decided to let himself enjoy this little notion. History would be changed, and it was all going to be thanks to him.

A sleek black car rolled past Mike's Prius, going past the hotel and turning into the alleyway behind it. Back entrance, obviously. A few minutes later, it reversed out and drove away. Mike thought Rayner would have appreciated an extra pair of hands for safety, but it was obvious that the name of the game for the congressman wasn't safety so much as secrecy. He killed fifteen minutes by chewing liquorice, then he opened the glove compartment, pulled out a silenced .22, and got out the car, leaving it unlocked. He didn't need it again, and if someone wanted to steal it, it was less evidence against him. He stuck the .22 in a holster hidden inside his jacket. He moved down the street, crossing the junction and walking way past the Phoenix. He stopped, crossed the road, and moved back towards the hotel. 

He wanted to be sure to surprise whoever was waiting by the back door. He knew he could just double-tap them with the .22, but he wanted to keep noise and mess to a minimum. A gunshot might set anyone close by off to his presence, but anything else was game, and would be quietly attributed to this part of town being itself. He'd have to get slightly creative. He stopped just short of the alleyway, and closed his eyes. He wanted to take a second to get into character. He opened his eyes and wandered into the alleyway, his balance completely ‘gone’, propping his hands against the wall to stay up. He coughed, wheezed, and fell onto the floor, still coughing. He looked up to see the security guard, lit by a dim fluorescent light over the door, looking over with some indifference.  
"Been having fun?" he asked. Mike got himself back up, falling back towards the wall.  
"Hah, yeah, fun. You like fun?" he mumbled, his voice slurred.The guard didn't react. Mike wandered a bit closer, coughing some more.  
"I hear it's dangerous to drink," said the guard. On cue, Mike chuckled merrily at this notion. "But," the guard added, putting more weight behind his voice "it's even more dangerous to keep walking this way. Turn around and go home, friend."  
"Dangerous?" said Mike, appearing incredulous at the notion. "You're not dangerous, you're like me, you're a nice guy, a fun guy. You like to party, don't you?" Mike stumbled a bit closer. The guard, quickly looking both ways, pushed his jacket back to reveal a holstered revolver on his belt. Mike was surprised, but only by the impractical choice of firearm. "Boy," said Mike. "You could take somebody's eye out with that if you're not careful."  
"You might lose more than an eye if you're not careful, friend. Turn around."  
"Are... Are you threatening me, sir?" His words were even more slurred, but the act had to be over fast. Fun as it was, he was wasting far too much time with this idiot. "How..." he leant his head back, thinking the timing through in his head. "...dare you," he said, suddenly swinging his head forward and head-butting the goon on the nose, who fell back against the wall, his right hand reached for the gun, Mike grabbed it with his own right hand, quickly moving to push him back against the wall with his own back, thrusting his own head backwards to knock the goon's into the wall, weakening him enough to loosen his grip on the dinky revolver, Mike snatched it out and spun around to whack him right in the face with the barrel. The goon went soft and fell to the floor. Mike figured next time, he should try and be cleaner. He threw the body and the now unloaded gun in the dumpster, and made his way in.

The back entrance led to a kitchen, which was closed at this hour. Mike shuffled through, peeking out into the small dining hall. A single cleaner was mopping the floor. Mike did what everyone did and pretended he didn't exist, and moved towards the doorway to the lobby, slowing down as he approached it. He peeked in through the window slit in the door, spotting the tough bald guy from earlier, now taking it easy on a comfy leather couch which, conveniently for him, gave him a good vantage point of all the entrances. If Mike walked out, he couldn't just walk past and ignore him like he did the cleaner. This guy would notice, ask questions. Mike took a step back and looked around. The only door here led into the kitchen. There was nothing doing, he'd have to get that big guy's attention. Alright, he thought. What can I do with a big guy's attention?

Mike pushed the double-doors open and slid into the lobby, gliding straight for the elevators. Baldie looked up.  
"Hey." Mike ignored him, and called a lift down. He could hear Baldie approaching. "What are you doing here?" Mike turned his head, but not his body.  
"I'm... going back to my room."  
"Which room is that?"  
"I don't know that I feel comfortable telling you my room number."  
The elevator dinged open and he slid in, the goon following him in.  
"What floor?" asked Baldie, insisting.  
"Third, please." The goon thumbed the button, and the doors closed. Mike felt the box rising. He reached into his jacket, pulled out the .22, and shot him right in the face as he turned around, his body dropping faster than the guy at the back door did, leaving a strip of red on the wall as he fell, topped with a wide splatter. So much for staying clean. Fuck it, Mike thought, the cleaner won't ask questions. But he knew he had to take care of the body. He put the gun back and lifted it up.

The elevator dinged on the third floor. Mike peeked out into the empty corridor, and carried the body through and up the stairs to the roof. He looked around. There was no obvious place for a dead body with a hole in its head. In fairness, this was no obvious place for a dead body with a hole in its head. So he left it there, where no-one would think to look right away. He made his way back to the third floor, strolling through the hallway. If he was seen, he didn't want to look like he was looking for something. That said, all he was looking for was two guys standing outside a door. None here. He took the stairs down to the second floor. He entered the hallway on the second floor and turned right, where he saw two guys standing outside a door in the middle of the hall. He kept on walking, strolling by like he had no business to attend to. All the same, it was useless. He could pretend for only so long. As good as he was at this, he knew he had a face for it too. Some drunk kids once walked past him, carelessly shouting that he 'had a face like a mafia hitman or something'. Since then, he factored that aspect into his operations. 

For example, as he kept on walking, he heard footsteps behind him, knowing that one of the guards was now following him, either to ask a few questions, or just to avoid any risks. So Mike kept walking, counting on turning the corner. When he did, he straightened his back against the wall, waiting for the other guy to join him. When he did, Mike lunged, pulled him in, knuckled him on the nose to disorient him, and manoeuvred behind him to trap the guy in a tight chokehold. He couldn't escape, and was making a lot of fuss with his legs. Mike counted on this. In fact, he heard from down the hall:  
"Jim?"   
This was followed by footsteps, faster this time. Jim's friend was coming to save him. Mike tightened his hold around Jim, until his flailing slowed, and stopped, right at the moment Jim's friend turned the corner, and Mike shot into an uppercut which knocked him backwards, cold. Mike took a deep breath. He checked both their jackets, and found a key. Rayner clearly liked his closed doors, but this was another small safety measure. Ironic, Mike thought. He approached the door, pulling out the .22, holding it up by his hip. With the other hand, he stuck the key in and unlocked the door. He turned the knob, and gently pushed the door open. 

Inside, Mike saw the startled faces of Rayner and his guest, a much older man who reached for his gun, but was met with a round from the .22, sending him falling back into the seat he got up from. Rayner was speechless, maybe even lacking for breath. Mike stepped in, pulled the key out, and kicked the door shut behind him, his eyes stuck to Rayner like cement. He got closer, and Rayner raised his hands.   
"W-who are you? What are you doing here? Who sent you? Who?" Mike smirked.  
"Questions, questions." He indicated down with his gun, but Rayner just looked at him and the gun, puzzled.   
"What do you-"  
"On your knees, Rayner." The congressman didn't waste a second.  
"Please, I don't know why you're doing this, I don't know who paid you but I can pay double and-" he was cut off as Mike slowly slid the suppressor into his mouth. Rayner was sweating now, his breaths getting shorter. He was trying to shake his head in protest, but he could only move his head so much. Mike pulled the trigger. Blood and skin splattered all over the decent furniture, and the terror faded from Rayner's eyes, along with everything else. His body leaned backwards, sliding off the suppressor. Mike took a moment to observe the scene. He just killed a congressman. Easy. He smiled at himself. He looked over at the other body. He had no idea who this was, but he'd find out later on the news. He checked his watch. He had a half hour to get back to the phone booth and confirm the kill. He put the gun away and made his way to the exit, grabbing the handle and clicking it open. 

That's when he heard shuffling behind him. He turned around. Rayner, his eyes still empty, was sitting up, propped up by his arms. Mike stared, he could see the hole he made at the back of Rayner’s throat. He pulled his gun out and shot Rayner in the head, sending him right back down. He walked to Rayner's limp body, kicked a limp hand, and decided to slug him in the head a few more times, now leaving a bloody mess of a face. Mike had no idea why he was shaking, and he took two steps back. Rayner lifted his head again. Mike unwittingly let out a gasp, and emptied the magazine into his face, the floor now near completely red. But Rayner didn't fall back down this time. Instead, he just got up. His voice was now deeper, slower, calmer.  
"Stop."  
Mike turned to run, Rayner grabbed his hand and pulled him, tripping him up as he fell to the floor. He walked past Mike, grabbed the door handle, and ripped it off. He turned and knelt in front of the now frozen Mike. "What is your name?" asked the now obliterated face of Rayner, just chunks of skin, blood, eyeball, skull, and nose. No response. Rayner repeated the question, as the bridge of his nose fell off, squelching to the floor.  
"Mike."  
"Who sent you, Mike?"  
"D-d... Daniels."  
Rayner nodded.  
"I know," he said. "My men have already found him. I wanted to see how honest you could be. They haven't told me yet where they hid the body.” Inside Mike's heart, something fell. "Who's the client?" Rayner asked. Mike shook his head.  
"I don't know."  
"I know you don't. It was McReary. He thinks I'm trouble. My men have taken care of him too." He stood up. "Sit down. You look like a dog." Hesitating, Mike sat up on one of the easy chairs, opposite his other victim. Rayner looked down at his bloody suit. Then he went into the bathroom. Through the door, Mike could see Rayner's reflection. He could see it forcefully mutate back to the way it was before Mike reworked it.  
"What are you?" Mike shouted. "What are you?" Rayner shook his head.   
"Questions, questions." His voice was back to how it was before. Except now it wasn't scared, it was simply confident. "You have five more minutes."  
"...of what?"  
"Life," said Rayner. "Because you were honest, I'm going to let you enjoy your life for five more minutes before I get rid of you." Mike was going to cry, but he had long ago trained himself to forget how to do so.  
"What are you doing here?" he asked. Rayner didn't say anything for a bit, then, looking out the window at the dark street, spoke.  
"We're here to help you. We're going to guide this world back to the way it should be. The people here cannot be trusted to run things properly, so we're going to run it for them. It will take a while, but we have to play the long game."  
"This world?” Mike’s head was a cloud of fear and panic, searching for answers. “Are you from… outer…” he couldn’t get the words out. The thing that called itself Rayner spoke.  
“We’ve been here as long as you. We’ve been watching from the dark parts.”   
Mike had no idea what that meant and he didn't want to ask. He simply reached into his pocket and took out a stick of liquorice. He began to eat it as he waited.


End file.
